CHAPTER II.—AT THE RIVER SIDE.
Yet to keep an eye upon her was more easily said than done. At the bottom of the terrace it was impenetrably dark. Not a star shone from the clouded sky. The points of light along the opposite shore—and here and there, upon the bosom of the stream, the red or green lantern of a vessel—punctured the darkness without relieving it. Strain my eyesight as I might, I could see nothing beyond the length of my arm.
But the lapping of the waves upon the strand, and about the piles of the little T-shaped landing-stage that extends into the river at this point, was distinctly audible, and served to guide me. Towards the landing-stage I cautiously advanced; and when I felt the planking of it beneath my feet, I halted. The whereabouts of the woman I had no means of determining. “However,” thought I, “if her business be self-destruction, she has not yet transacted it, for I have heard no splash.”
Ah! Suddenly a flare of heat-lightning on the eastern horizon illuminated the land and the water. It was very brief, but it lasted long enough for me to take my bearings, and to discern the object of my quest.
She was standing, a mass of shadow, at the very verge of the little wharf, distant not more than three yards in front of me. A moment later I had silently gained her side, stretched out my hand, and laid firm hold upon her by the arm.
In great and entirely natural terror, she started back: as luck would have it, not in the direction of the water, for else she had certainly tumbled in, perhaps dragging me with her. And though she uttered no articulate sound, she caught her breath in a sharp spasmodic gasp, and I could feel her tremble violently under my touch.
I sought to reassure her.
“Do not be alarmed,” I said, speaking as gently as I could; “I mean you no manner of evil. I saw you come down here from the street above; and it struck me as hardly a safe place for a person of your sex to visit alone at such an hour.”
She made no answer. A prolonged shudder swept over her, and she drew a deep long sigh.
“You have no reason to fear me,” I continued. “I have only come to you for the purpose of protecting you, of being of service to you, if I can. Look—ah! no; it's too dark for you to see me. But I am a white-haired old man, the last person in the world you need be afraid of. You would not tremble and draw away like that, if you could know how far I am from wishing you anything but good.”
She spoke. “Then release my arm.”
Her tone was haughty and indignant. She enunciated each syllable with frigid preciseness. From the correctness of her accent and the cultivated quality of her voice, I learned that I had to do with a woman of education and refinement.
“Then release my arm.”
“No,” I said, “I dare not release your arm.”
“Dare not!” echoed she, in the same indignant tone, to which now was added an inflection of perplexity. Sightless as the darkness rendered me, I could have wagered that she raised her eyebrows and curled her lip.
“I dare not,” I repeated.
“Possibly you will be good enough to explain what it is you fear.”
“Frankly, I fear that you mean to do yourself a mischief. I dare not let go my hold upon you, lest you might take advantage of your liberty to throw yourself into the water.”
“Well, and if I should?”
“That would be a very foolish thing to do.”
“But what concern is it of yours? What right have you to molest me? My life is my own, is it not, to dispose of as I please?”
“That is a very difficult and subtle question, involving the first principles of theology and ethics. I do not think we can profitably enter into a discussion of it just now, and here. But this much I will promise you,” said I, “I shall not let go my hold upon your arm until I am persuaded that you have renounced your suicidal purpose.”
She gave a tchk of exasperation. Then, after a momentary silence—
“You are insolent and intrusive, sir. You presume upon the fact that I am a woman and alone, to take a shameful and unmanly advantage of me.”
“I am sorry if such is your opinion of me,” I returned. “I do only what I must.”
“You tell me you are an old man. I am not old, and I am strong. I warn you now to let me go. I assure you, you are unwise to trifle with me. I am a very desperate woman, and shall not mind consequences. If you try me beyond endurance—if we should come to a struggle——”
“Ah! but we will not,” I hastily interposed. “You will not improve your superior strength against one who is moved by no other feeling than goodwill toward you. And besides,” I added, “though it is true that I am close upon sixty-six years of age, my muscles have still some iron in them. I fancy I should be able to hold my own.”
This, I must acknowledge, was sheer braggadocio. I weigh but nine stone, measure but five feet four in my boots, and am anything rather than an athlete.
“You are a meddler, sir. Good or bad, your motives do not interest me. Let me go. My patience is exhausted. I will brook no further interference. Release my arm. Your conduct is an outrage.”
She spoke in genuine anger, stamping her foot, and tugging to escape my grasp.
“What I do, madam, be it outrageous or otherwise, I am in common humanity bound to do. I should be virtually your murderer if I did less. It is my bounden duty to restrain you, to do what I may to help you.”
“Help me, sir? You are in no position to help me. I have not asked your help. There is no help for me. You are meddlesome and officious. I will not dispute with you further. Let me go!”
She spoke the last three words with threatening emphasis. I could hear her teeth come together with a decisive click after them. Again she tugged to break loose from me.
“You require of me the impossible,” was my reply. “It is impossible for me to let you go. I implore you to control your anger, and to listen to me for one moment. You are labouring under great excitement, you are not accountable, you are not yourself. How can I let you go? I should never know another instant of peace if I stood by and suffered you to do yourself the injury that you contemplate. I should be a brute, a craven, a criminal, if I did that. I should be answerable for your death. As a human being, I am compelled to restrain you if I can. You must see that it is impossible for me to let you go.”
“Well, have you finished?” she demanded, as I paused.
“Not quite,” I answered, “for now I must ask you to let me take you to your home. Tomorrow morning you will feel differently, you will see all things by a different light. You will thank me then for what you now call an outrage. Think of your friends, your family. No matter what anguish you may be suffering, no matter to what desperate straits your affairs may be arrived, you have no right to attempt your life. Besides, you say you are young. Therefore you have the future before you; you have hope. I am older than you, and wiser. Be advised and guided by me. Come, let me take you to your home.”
“Home!” she repeated bitterly. “Home, friends, family! Ha-ha-ha!” She laughed; but her laughter was dry and sardonic, horrid to hear. “What you say would be cruel, sir, if it were not so highly humorous. You speak and act in ignorance. You are very far from comprehending the situation. I have no home. I have no family, no friends, and, worst of all, no money. There is not a roof in this city—no, nor in the whole world, for that matter—under which I can seek a welcome; not a friend, acquaintance, relation, not a human being, in short, to miss me, or even to enquire after me, if I disappear. Except, indeed, enemies; except those who would wish to find me for my further hurt: of them there are plenty. Now will you let me go? I am in extreme misery, sir. There is no help for me, no hope. My life is a wreck, a horror. I can't bear it, I can't endure it any longer. Let me go. If you understood the circumstances, you would not detain me. If you knew what I am, what I have done, and what I should have to look forward to if I lived; if you knew what it is to reach that pass where life means nothing for you but fire in the heart: you would not refuse to let me go. You could condemn me to no agony, sir, worse than to have to live. To live is to remember; and so long as I remember I shall be in torment. Even to sleep brings me no relief, for when I sleep I dream. Oh, for mercy's sake, let me go! Go yourself. Go away, and leave me here. You will not repent it. You may always recall it as an act of kindness. I believe you mean to be kind. Be really kind, and do not interfere with me longer.”
She had begun to speak with a recklessness and a savage irony that were shocking and repulsive; but in the end she spoke with a pathos and a passion that were irresistible. I was stirred to the bottom of my heart.
“I wish, dear lady,” I said, “I wish you could know how deeply and sincerely I feel for you, how genuine and earnest my desire is to help you. Pray, pray give me at least a chance to do so. Look; I live in one of those houses, above there, on the terrace—where you see the lights. Come with me to my house. You say you have no roof under which you can seek a welcome: I will promise you a welcome there. You say you are friendless: let me be your friend. Come with me to my house. I believe—nay, I am sure—I shall be able in some way to help you. Anyhow, give me a chance to try. I am an old man, a physician. Come with me, and let us talk together. Between us we shall discover some better solution of your difficulties than the drastic one that you are looking to. But I will make a bargain with you. Come with me to my house, and remain there for one hour. If, at the expiration of that hour, I shall not have persuaded you to think better of your present purpose—if then you are still of your present mind—I will promise to let you depart unattended, without further hindrance, to go wherever and to do whatever you see fit. No harm can come to you from accompanying me to my house—no harm by any hazard, but possibly much good. Try it. Try me. Trust me. Come. Within an hour, if you still wish it, you may go your way alone. I give you my word of honour. Will you come?”
“You leave me no free choice, sir. It will be my only means of deliverance from you. I run a great risk, a great peril, greater than you can think, in doing so. But it is agreed that at the end of one hour I shall be my own mistress again? After that—hands off?”
“At the end of one hour you may go or stay, according to your own pleasure.”
“Very well; I am ready.”